


Prime Directive

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens/Star Trek (Reboot) crossover
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Crossover, First Time, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>And  by crossover I of course mean Crowley and Aziraphale messing about in Star Trek 'verse, with a side of Kirk/Spock.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prime Directive

**Author's Note:**

> And by crossover I of course mean Crowley and Aziraphale messing about in Star Trek 'verse, with a side of Kirk/Spock.

_**Prime Directive**_  
 **Title:** Prime Directive  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Fandoms:** Good Omens/Star Trek (Reboot) crossover  
 **Pairing:** Crowley/Aziraphale, Kirk/Spock  
 **Author's Notes:** And by crossover I of course mean Crowley and Aziraphale messing about in Star Trek 'verse, with a side of Kirk/Spock.

"We're picking up something on our sensors, captain."

Kirk waits. Then has to say, "Could you be a little more specific, ensign?"

"I—"

"It is a distress signal," Spock interrupts. It comes across kind of rude but Spock's apparently unaware.

Kirk swivels away from him to stare futilely at the viewscreen. "But how do you know—?"

"We're being hailed," the ensign pipes up, eyes flickering between buttons on his consol like it's utterly baffling that they should be lighting up. Kirk suddenly remembers why he can't remember his name. "Should I—?"

Spock's stood up. "Captain, perhaps—"

"On screen," Kirk says.

Nothing. Only stars and static.

"On screen . . . with a cherry on top?"

"The channel's open, sir."

Kirk glances over to double check right when Spock's walking past him to do the same. After a minute of button-pushing Spock straightens, turns to Kirk. "The channel is indeed open, however they are not transmitting." During his pause Kirk reflects on Spock's tensely muscled interpretation of a relaxed pose. "It is an unusual distress signal. I traced its point of origin to—"

"Stabilizing, now," the ensign says.

The viewscreen wobbles with effort while audio gradually tunes in:

" _—oh, just let me, I'm much better with people than you are._"

" _Since when?_ "

" _Well, the dawn of time, at least. I am the nice one, if you recall._"

" _Nonsense. People always think your niceness is insincere, or are you really that oblivious?_ "

" _Whatever you say, my dear. How do you turn this thing on again?_ "

" _Here, just—ohshit._ " And the voice drops to a hissing whisper. " _How long has that been blinking?_ "

The other voice doesn't whisper back. " _Well, I don't know, if you'd ever actually liste-mmf!_"

" _Bloody useless angel._ " There's the sound of a throat being cleared. Then at full volume: " _Greetings, Earthlings!_ "

Even Spock raises a derisive eyebrow at that.

Kirk puts on his captain face, standing and staring down the still-blurred figure on the viewscreen. "This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Are you in distress Mr . . . uh, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

" _Oh, how frightfully rude of me. You can call me Crowley._ " The blurred figure makes a complicated gesture with its hand and the picture is suddenly crystal-clear. What Kirk sees is humanoid, although the eyes are a whole other story. And were those _wings_ . . . ?

Crowley smiles like a snake. " _Listen, I'm really sorry to trouble you, but we seem to have taken a wrong turn back at the nebula, and—_ "

Kirk doesn't care. "You're on the edge of Klingon space in contested territory. What _exactly_ is the nature of your voyage?"

" _Okay okay, guys, let's just calm down. We're just lost. Honesst. We're just trying to get back to Earth._ "

Spock takes a step closer to Kirk, and Kirk imagines the air between them vibrates with potential. Kirk stares determinedly ahead. In an aside to him Spock says, "A ship of that class could not have survived this far into the Xarantine Sector independently."

" _Well, no, not usually,_ " Crowley concedes. " _That is in fact why we're in distress. We've been—_"

"Who the hell is 'we' anyway?" Kirk says.

Another, dustier-looking alien jumps into view, a bit too enthusiastically. " _Oh yes. Hello, hello. Yes. We are in a bit of a bind here, I'm afraid. We haven't much petrol left—_"

Crowley leans forcefully into the other alien. " _Dilithium crystals, you mean._ "

" _Ah, that's right. Well, anyway, the point is we'd be terribly grateful for some help. Oh! I'm Aziraphale, by the way._ " Aziraphale smiles warmly.

Kirk studies them. They _looked_ harmless.

"Captain, a word," Spock says, hand on his shoulder to turn him away from the screen, head tilting closer to speak more secretly with him. Kirk doesn't quite catch the first couple of words. " . . . advise you to exercise caution."

"When have you ever known me to be cautious?"

Spock's caught off guard, looks down to think about it and answers: "Not very often. But it is my job to guard against your more detrimental flaws."

"You really know how to sweet talk a guy, Spock," Kirk says. Spock's brows furrow. "Listen, I'm not an idiot. Mama always taught me never to pick up hitchhikers, but let's face it, these guys don't stand a chance against the able-bodied crew of a Constitution class starship."

Spock raises one of the furrowed brows. It seems to say, _Famous last words, much?_ If Spock said things like that.

When Kirk looks back at the viewscreen the aliens are beaming hopefully like winged humanoid puppies. And Spock just looks Stern.

Kirk sighs.

*

When they get to the transporter room Scotty looks torn between distrust and disbelief. The aliens are still standing on the transporter pad, apparently engrossed in residual bickering.

"They've got _wings_ , cap'n," Scotty murmurs, inclining his head to Kirk and Spock as they walk up beside him.

"A very keen observation, Mr. Scott," Spock says.

But Scotty's too caught up in his own confusion to even realize that Spock might be joking under the guise of not understanding jokes. "It isn't right. I don't like it."

"Why Scotty," Kirk says. "You simply can't go around telling other cultures what is or isn't right about them. I mean, what's the first rule of Starfleet?"

"Don't talk about Starfleet!" Crowley says, miraculously closer to the three of them. You can really see how glowingly odd his eyes are, from here. He's dressed in black from head to toe in the kind of clothes that scream expensive to the deaf. He turns on Spock. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced?"

"This is my first officer, Mr. Spock."

Crowley glances between them. His eyes light up like he's just found a shiny new toy. "Indeed."

Aziraphale steps decidedly in front of Crowley, getting a reptilian glare for his trouble. "Oh, I do apologize for Crowley, here. Never did learn his manners." He holds a jovial hand out for Spock to shake. "I'm Aziraphale. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Spock doesn't move. "'Aziraphael'?" he says, nods to himself. "Your name recalls the Judeo-Christian tradition of the naming of angels. However I am not familiar with the translation of 'Aziraphael' — God is my . . . ?"

"Bookstore," Crowley cheerfully supplies.

"What planet are you from?" Spock asks, and the aliens balk a little at his clipped tone.

"Er," says Aziraphale.

"I see. And what species are you?"

"Ngk," says Crowley.

Spock nods again, apparently satisfied with this.

Kirk isn't. "Uh huh. I'm sorry, but my universal translator must be malfunctioning. _What_ species did you guys say you were?"

"Ethe—"  
"Occu—"

"Well really, Crowley, you know which is more accurate, considering our _origins_." Aziraphale elbows him unsubtly.

Crowley makes a face at that, then leans in front of Aziraphale and tells Kirk: "We're ineffable."

Aziraphale unsuccessfully stifles a snort.

Spock diplomatically ignores this. "Would the plural form of that be ineffabli?"

Crowley laughs. There's a used hovercar salesman note to it. "Right on the money, there, Spocko!"

Aziraphale is still shaking oddly in the background.

"Fine," Kirk says, still eyeing them in what he hopes is a threateningly _I'm on to you_ sort of way. "So what's with the eyes?" he asks Crowley.

Crowley waves it off. "Sometime in our ineffably distant past Aziraphale's half of the species started mating with another Erian race and their eyes turned out all wonky." He drops to a whisper. "Between you and me, Aziraphale here's considered a bit of an Untouchable, by ineffable standards."

Aziraphale sputters.

Kirk nods. "Right, right. Where did you say the planet Er was?"

Aziraphale hurries to answer: "Oh just. Just _way_ beyond, whatsit, the Empire and all that, _you_ know—"

Kirk doesn't ease up on the glaring.

Spock pulls him aside. "We could very well know the planet by another name, captain. It is furthermore entirely possible that they are from an unexplored quadrant."

"Anyway," Crowley says loudly, "I must say I don't appreciate being interrogated like this. It's borderline racist, it is. Aren't you Starfleet clowns supposed to be the guardians of peace and justice, around here?"

Ugh. A PR nightmare was the last thing Kirk needed, especially after that incident on Risa. "If we can assist you on your trip back to Earth, we'd be happy to do so. We're headed back that way anyway."

"Obviously we don't wish to deter you from your mission," Aziraphale says. Crowley shrugs.

"Oh, well, we're not really on any particular mission, right now," Kirk says.

"You're not?" Aziraphale's concerned. "Are you _quite_ sure?"

"Look, I don't know what you've heard, but our only 'mission' is peaceful exploration."

"Tell that to the Klingons," Crowley mumbles.

"What was that, mister?"

"Nothing, captain," Crowley says, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Spock nudges him. Kirk has a mini heart attack. "Captain."

"Just hang on a minute, Spock—"

"Captain, I really must protest—"

"You protest too much, methinks," Kirk says.

Aziraphale holds up a finger, like that makes it okay to interrupt. "Not quite the correct usage of the phrase, I'm afraid."

"That so? Read a lot of Shakespeare out there in unexplored space?"

Crowley says, "Oh come on, even Klingons read Shakespeare."

Aziraphale makes a face at that.

" _Captain_ ," Spock says.

"Just a minute, okay?" Kirk addresses the aliens: "I'll have someone show you to your quarters."

"Thank you again, captain," Aziraphale says.

"Mm," Crowley says.

Kirk moves to the intercom on the wall and gives out instructions. A bouncy female yeoman appears in short order.

Kirk and Spock stand in the doorway watching the aliens' retreat down the corridor. Aziraphale's wings smack into an overhang almost immediately and Crowley's roll of the eyes is a gesture that incorporates his whole body.

After minute Kirk says, "It's not that I don't think it's a little risky to have them on. I just figure we should probably keep our enemies close, or the least figure out what they're really doing out here in no man's land."

"That is not the point. You are not following regulations."

"Look, Spock, anybody that's known me for more than five minutes knows I'm no fan of regulations. Relax, for once. We have _security_ you know."

For some reason Spock doesn't seem reassured by this.

Kirk beckons a passing red-shirted crewmember and asks him to keep an eye on their guests. "If they get uppity, just cite protocol. But honestly? I'm sure they won't give you any trouble. I mean, _look_ at them."

*

Aziraphale sighs. "All right, I see your point, but did you _have_ to bring him in here?" He considers the frozen-in-time security guard propped up in the corner. "Couldn't we just erase his memory later?"

"You wanna put him to sleep and have him dream of whatever he likes best? Be my guest. I just figured you'd rather not get your hands dirty."

"It's not _that_ ," Aziraphale says testily. "It's just rather more suspicious when someone disappears out the blue like that, don't you think?"

Crowley laughs.

"What?"

"You." Crowley's busy on the tiny computer in their quarters.

"Do you suppose we should have given them fake names?" Aziraphale frets, hovering behind him.

"Please. The name thing hasn't fazed humans since First Contact."

"True." Aziraphale peers at the computer, one great wing casting a shadow over the screen, hand on the back of Crowley's chair that makes it shake for a minute. Crowley doesn't say anything, although he does forget to breathe. "What _are_ you doing, anyway?"

"There's no reason we can't get in a little tempting en route."

"Maybe for you there isn't."

"I'm just." Crowley sits back in his chair in frustration, which makes Aziraphale's hand slide over the practically erogenous strip of skin where his wings meet and that's when Crowley figures he might as well get up and pace. "Do you think returning to Earth right now is such a good idea, anyway?" he says from a safe distance. "My side's got agents all over Federation controlled space. We might as well stay out here and avoid getting roped into doing any actual work."

"Well," Aziraphale sniffs. "I certainly don't intend on slacking off just because there are fewer representatives from your side _or_ my side so close to the Empire."

"Really? Because that's exactly what we've been doing."

"No," Aziraphale says. " _I've_ been working on helping the Klingons reconcile their differences with, er, the rest of the galaxy."

"Uh huh. How's that going for you?"

"You—you _stalked_ me out here. At least I have a good alibi—that is, a _reason_."

"Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Please. _I'm_ merely here to thwart you."

"Well." Aziraphale cools, looks around their quarters. " _I'm_ going back to Earth. What about you?"

"Like I said, I'm duty bound to thwart you," Crowley says, but he can tell Aziraphale's on the verge of accusing him of sentimentality. "Earth it is."

Thankfully Aziraphale says nothing, although the knowing smile he sends Crowley's way has him cringing plenty. "Yes well. I'll be doing some thwarting myself while we're on this ship, evidently. What exactly are you planning on doing?"

"Have you looked in Kirk's mind? _Very_ interesting. He's got all these memories of the future in there, but they're, like, Spock's? No clue how _that_ happened, but you know how time travel's run rampant, these days."

Aziraphale shakes his head at the time traveling youth of today.

"There's these crazy borrowed Vulcan emotions lodged in there," Crowley continues. "Let's just say he's very confused. And kind of ridiculously ripe for an infernal suggestion or two."

Aziraphale sighs. "Must you? Can't we have a nice, quiet transport, for once? Enjoy the atmosphere, take in the sights . . . "

"It's a cruis _er_ , Aziraphale. Not a cruise ship."

Aziraphale clearly resents this. "There's nothing to _read_ , here."

"There's everything to read, here. Computers, these days—"

"Yes, but it's just not the same," Aziraphale says ruefully.

And Crowley feels a twinge of guilt—he'd done a lot to encourage technology over the centuries.

"What about Spock?"

"Is Spock all hot and bothered over Kirk, too? Uh, yes. He's Repression 101, he is."

"I meant, can you read his mind?"

"No. But I don't have to to figure that out." Crowley pauses. "I can't read your mind either."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Bad example. Say, are you hungry or what?"

"We don't have appetites."

" _I_ have," Crowley says. "Come on."

*

McCoy fixes their visitors with a long, considering look from across the rec room. "I don't like it, Jim. How do we know they're not Klingons?"

Kirk rolls his eyes. "I dunno, because Ensign Reid's tribble isn't flipping out? Get a grip, Bones." He gives him a thump on the back. "The universe isn't divided into Klingons and the Federation."

"Might as well be," McCoy grumbles. "Otherwise, what's the damn point of the Federation?"

Kirk's getting a headache. It's easy to slip into simple Klingon-clad explanations for everything if you don't have to be the diplomatic, responsible one. Of course Kirk knows they aren't so different, but opposing another group is something people like to bond over. It reeks of history, and in his less heated moments when he can think past isolated incidents and look at it objectively, it's a little startling to see the all-inclusive Federation be so close minded about Klingons. Some people were sure the whole conflict would end in mass planetary annihilation on both sides, us or them, but history usually had a way of reconciling groups in opposition by slow assimilation through time, if nothing else. For all he knew he'd have a Klingon security chief one day.

Kirk snaps out of it. "They look like, well, they look like angels, quite frankly. What with the wings and everything. I've never seen anything like it."

"Angels?" McCoy says. "I've heard the deep space pilots talk about them, but . . . oh good God, what's your damn Vulcan think he's doing?" Spock's sat down at a table with the aliens.

"He's your Vulcan, too, honey," Kirk scolds. "We can't just go splitting him up like a piece of meat."

"You could."

Nervous laughter bubbles unexpectedly. He can't think of a good comeback.

McCoy smirks, pats Kirk's shoulder consolingly. "I've gotta go. Careful though—your face is gonna stick like that."

Kirk joins the aliens where they're holding court in the middle of the rec room, sits across from them with Spock, asks belatedly, "Mind if I join you?"

Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale smiles beatifically. Spock barely even acknowledges his presence.

"Wine?" Crowley offers, indicating an old-fashioned bottle.

One glass won't hurt. "Sure, why not?"

"Right," Crowley says, pours some and hands it over.

Kirk almost chokes on the first sip. "This is—" he coughs "—this is synthehol?"

"Oh yes," Crowley says. "What? A little strong?" If Kirk didn't know any better he'd say Crowley was evil.

"2136 Sauvignon Blanc," Aziraphale adds. "Splendid vintage, even when it first—er, it's. It's simply _splendid_ , isn't it?"

"You lot clearly aren't using your food synthesizers properly," Crowley scoffs.

"Clearly," Spock says dryly.

Aziraphale jumps in. "Now Captain Kirk. Your first officer here was just telling us about your prime directive. And I must admit I'm still not sure I fully understand it."

Kirk glances at Spock, gets an enigmatic expression in response and wonders why he'd expected anything else. "It's actually pretty straightforward," he says. "The prime directive is there to prevent us from interfering with underdeveloped civilizations—giving them military aid or technology, or just well-meaning guidance. Even though it may seem like a good idea to help out some struggling pre-warp species, it's important to let cultures develop on their own without any undue influence."

"Eheheh, you said it," Crowley says, shifty-eyed.

Aziraphale looks just as worried. He leans across the table. "You wouldn't happen to know who the author of this particular principle might be, would you?"

Crowley jerks Aziraphale back. " _Adam_?" he hisses. "You're not serious, angel. It's been how long?"

"That might not matter, you know," Aziraphale whispers back.

Kirk talks over them: "Not some guy named Adam that I know of, no."

Crowley and Aziraphale sip from their glasses nervously. And surprisingly easily.

Kirk glances at Spock again. "We uh. Really should be going. Duty calls and all that."

Spock stands up before Kirk's even done speaking—he'd clearly been waiting for an out, and Kirk's a little smug about having provided one. "Ready, captain?"

*

In the turbolift back to the bridge, Kirk says, "You were awfully quiet back there."

"I did not have anything to say," Spock says.

Didn't stop you from going over to them in the first place, weirdo. "What's wrong with their accents, anyway?"

"One can only assume that it is the ineffable accent, captain."

"No no no, that's not what I mean. They're just, well, they're really British aren't they? Am I crazy here?"

"According to your most recent psychological evaluation, no, you are not mentally unstable." Spock says it like he isn't sure a mere evaluation was up to the task when it came to Kirk's personal brand of insanity. "Furthermore, it is not unusual for the universal translator to assign familiar accents to alien species."

"It's not just the accent though—it's. I dunno. They just seem . . . off."

"Well," Spock says. "There does seem to be a decent amount of a unresolved sexual tension between them."

Kirk's eyebrows climb. Since when was Spock in tune to this kind of stuff? Clearly it was a selective sort of awareness. If Spock took the time to study something, he did so with unparalleled thoroughness—it was probably for the best that he never took the time to study what was right in front of him.

"Well yeah," Kirk says carefully. "I don't see any reason why they shouldn't just do something about it. It's just sad . . . "

"It is most likely a result of their culture." Kirk wonders exactly what Spock gets out of looking at the swoosh of lights outside the lift during their conversation instead of at him.

"Doesn't mean it isn't sad," Kirk shrugs. "Doesn't it make it any more or any less legit."

"Cultural identity is important to most people," Spock says mildly, and Kirk knows it's time to back off.

*

Crowley and Aziraphale are playing three-dimensional chess in their quarters.

The last time they'd spent this much time together had been after the genocide on Tarsus IV—Crowley had showed up on his doorstep space-lagged and pale-faced and demanded they drink a vineyard's worth of wine in the back room of his shop.

Crowley's bishop threatens Aziraphale's queen. "They probably think we're one of the Q."

"Mm. I don't think humans have encountered them yet, my dear."

Crowley watches Aziraphale watching the chess pieces. "I dunno about you, but Q give me the willies. What the fuck are they, anyway? Not your side is it?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "I wish I knew." He moves a sneaky pawn up to block Crowley's latest assault. "I think it's one of those mysterious, Tom Bombadil sort of things."

"Pardon?"

"Bright blue his jacket is?" Aziraphale tries. "And his boots are yellow?"

" . . . "

"The Lord of the Rings? I'd thought pop culture was your area of expertise," Aziraphale huffs.

"Pop culture, yes," Crowley says. "Niche fantasy epics written over 200 years ago? Not so much."

"It's a classic."

"So why does that fall under my jurisdiction? For that matter, why does it fall under yours? Check, by the way."

Aziraphale moves another pawn. "Not anymore," he says.

"Dammit." Crowley leans closer to the chessboard to think better. "Why do you think Heaven's got so many more field agents now, anyway? Encroaching on your territory a bit, isn't it?"

"Hell has just as many," Aziraphale says.

"Yeah." Crowley makes his move, relocating a stray knight to buy time. "I dunno. Sometimes I wonder if it's been His plan all along. Botched Apocalypse followed by a new, literally cosmic game of chess. Our colleagues are much too busy battling it out across the galaxy now to stay disgruntled about the fruits of their labors on Earth amounting to nothing."

"I never thought about it like that." Aziraphale backs his king safely into a corner. "If that's the case, then what happens next? A universal Apocalypse another 6,000 yrs down the road?" There was no guidebook, anymore. It was scary, if you thought about it. Mostly because it was so freeing.

Crowley's face is just as impassive without the sunglasses of years past. "Check! For real this time."

"No it's—oh bother, that's check _mate_ , isn't it?" Aziraphale sighs. "You win this round, you old serpent."

"Yup," Crowley says, standing. "Look, I dunno about you, but I'm getting bored as all Hell with this ship. I might take a nap just to while away the time." He yawns for effect.

"There's only one bed . . ."

"Yeah, and? It's not like you're gonna use it." Crowley snaps his fingers and his suit's morphed into black silk pajamas that cling artistically to arms, hips, chest.

"Uhm," Aziraphale says eloquently.

"Anyway this isn't the Vega colony Ritz, angel. I'm not sure what kind of accommodations you were expecting." Crowley slips under the covers. "Do wake me up if there's a red alert or something."

Aziraphale nods, but Crowley's already out. He feels pathetically clichéd, watching over Crowley while he sleeps, but Crowley had been right—really, what else was there to do?

*

"Spock! Old buddy old pal!"

"Good afternoon, Crowley." The door _shifff_ 's shut behind him.

"Afternoon, is it?" Crowley gestures at the Enterprise in general. "How can you tell?"

"By consulting a clock."

". . . You know what? You're worse than the an—Aziraphale."

Spock's brows knit ever so slightly. "It is not a matter of good and bad."

"No, of course not," Crowley says. "What kind of universe would we live in if _that_ were the case?"

Just emotionless staring on Spock's end, there.

"I must say it's a surprise to see you, Spock," Crowley says. "Where's the captain?"

"On the bridge," Spock says.

"For once. Don't you guys have a starship to be running?"

Spock allows some time for Crowley to smirk. Then he says, "You and Aziraphale are not who you say you are. You are concealing your true identities, and unless I can divine the purpose of your deceit, I am forced to assume you mean us harm."

Crowley laughs. "Divine the purpose indeed. Look, Mr. Spock, I know it's hard to believe, but we honestly just need a transport. It's a long bloody flight back to Earth, otherwise. And I'd never hear the end of it from Aziraphale."

Spock waits until he's finished. "What are you?"

Crowley throws his hands up. "Well, gosh, you know what? You've found us out! He's an angel and I'm a demon, been around the last six millennia, give or take, just, you know, messin' about . . . "

"Angels and demons are fictional creatures of Terran mythology."

"Yes. And?"

Spock's composure flickers. "You cannot be _mythological_ creatures. It is illogical."

"Yes. _And_?"

Spock opens his mouth again but suddenly freezes. Aziraphale sighs from the doorway. "Really, my dear."

"Hey, what'd you have to do that for? I was trying to see if I could break his brain."

Aziraphale considers the immobilized Vulcan, taps a finger against his lips. "Erasing his memory is going to be exhausting, I hope you know," he whines.

"You'll live," Crowley reminds him.

*

Aziraphale finds Crowley in their quarters again some time later, raptly watching the computer. "What the devil are you doing?" Aziraphale says, crossing the room.

"Sh, you're ruining the mood."

"I beg your—oh. Oh dear." Aziraphale looks between Crowley and the live camera feed of Kirk and Spock in the captain's quarters. " _This_ is why you've been fiddling with that infernal contraption all week? Aren't you quite above intergalactic matchmaking?"

"Relax," Crowley hisses. "If they end up regretting it later they can always say aliens made them do it."

"Hm. It's not very original, is it?" Aziraphale peers over Crowley's shoulder. "You'll let me help you though, won't you?"

" _Help_ me?" Crowley says. "You're not gonna thwart me? You bitch and moan about non-interference nearly as much as these two."

"Love is never a sin," Aziraphale says. "There are angels whose sole assignment is to bring people in love together."

Crowley snorts. "Whatever. You wanna tarnish your halo on my watch? Fine by me. Earns me a few brownie points to boot, I should think."

"We'll just have to agree to disagree," Aziraphale smiles.

"Well, _I_ never agree to 'agreeing to disagree', since I'm _right_ , but yeah, sure."

Aziraphale likes it best when they're like this—Crowley convinced he's duped him and Aziraphale knowing that Crowley will never admit his own benevolent motivations. And they get to work together, instead of just side-by-side and constantly dodging conflicts of interest on into infinity. It's gotten rather tiring, over the years.

> "One person's physical attraction to another does not mandate the consummation of that attraction. If people entertained their every impulse, we would—"
> 
> "Have a lot more fun," Kirk finishes. Spock doesn't look too pleased. "So wait, you _are_ attracted to me?"
> 
> "That is irrelevant."
> 
> "Not to me."
> 
> Spock studies him for a long moment. Kirk imagines he can see the humanity in his eyes pushing toward the surface.
> 
> "Why does it have to be so _important_? Why can't it just be good? You don't have to verify everything as logically sound. Nobody cares, here. I know it's your identity and I know you want to distinguish yourself but your identity isn't supposed to be your culture. It's just supposed to be you."
> 
> Spock's mouth is a thin hard line. "You wear a uniform," he points out.
> 
> "Yeah but _I'm_ not a uniform. Describe me, Mr. Spock. Go."
> 
> Spock hesitates. Then: "You are reckless and you are stubborn. And occasionally you are brilliant."
> 
> "See? You know me," Kirk says. "I wanna know you."
> 
> "No, you want to copulate."
> 
> "That's just the vehicle."
> 
> "As dictated by your culture."
> 
> "As dictated by you turning me on. By me knowing that you're not an android. Spock I . . . I _know_ you feel something."
> 
> "That is irrelevant," Spock repeats.

"Well _this_ is going swimmingly," Aziraphale says.

"I'm giving it all she's got, angel."

"She?"

> "I mean, look at us!" Kirk says, with an edge of desperation. "We're great together. We fill in each other's gaps!"
> 
> Spock doesn't make a face, but it's a near thing. "I do not appreciate your . . . colorful idioms . . . "
> 
> Kirk sighs. "I didn't mean it like _that_ , although I must say I'm impressed your mind even went there."
> 
> Spock sighs, which is notable in and of itself.
> 
> "Look, I know we haven't known each other long but—"
> 
> "Indeed, we _do not_ know one another very well."
> 
> "But we will," Kirk says, turning the full force of his earnestness on him.

"A bit melodramatic," Aziraphale says distastefully.

"Sh. People eat that stuff up."

> Spock is looking at Kirk like he's lost his mind, which isn't that unusual, really. And therefore (logically) he might as well throw all caution to the wind and—
> 
> To Kirk's surprise, Spock kisses back.
> 
> It takes all of Kirk's self-control not to go right for the ears. It was a nonspecific impulse—maybe he'd lick or bite or suck at the elegantly pointed tips, maybe blow lightly after. You just couldn't help honing in on the distinctively inhuman characteristics.
> 
> About a second later Spock's licking the shell of Kirk's ear. _See?_ it wasn't just him . . . it was . . . oh, my . . .

Crowley turns to Aziraphale.

"I'm sorry, were you expecting a round of applause?"

Crowley shrugs.

"How _did_ you do that, anyway?"

He's grinning, proud of his cleverness. "That's the beauty of it. _I_ didn't do anything. I just put two people in a room and let nature take its course."

"This works with anybody, does it?"

"I didn't say _that_."

Rather graphic noises are drifting up from the computer. "So you're just hacking into security feeds to watch live pornography. This is what you do with your spare time."

"Hey, like I said, the pornography part isn't guaranteed."

"Still," Aziraphale says, then pauses while something on the computer crashes in the heat of passion. "Who's to say it isn't just something that accumulates over time? You put two people in a room together with no one else to talk to for long enough and they're either going to kill each other or, well." Kirk moans in the background as if to illustrate his point.

Crowley looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. "What are you on about?"

"I'm just saying that you're right." Has Aziraphale gotten closer? "Sometimes there's nothing left to do but let nature take its course."

"Oh." Crowley swallows. "I see. So, uh, just to be clear—"

Aziraphale's kiss makes it clear enough. Crowley's quickly obsessed with the soft exciting cling of lips, easy and bottomless-feeling, the sounds caught in the back of Aziraphale's throat that inspire Crowley to elicit more of them. His neck hurts from craning backwards, but even that feels good, important, necessary, because Aziraphale's hand's twisting in his hair to hold him there and taste.

They part and Aziraphale stares down at him. It feels awfully symbolic and Crowley would rather stand and pull him close or throw him onto a bed or something but it's no use—he's frozen in the chair by Aziraphale's voice, his bright body, his infinite eyes.

Crowley's panting. "I've wanted to do that for, for . . . what's the stardate again?"

"Oh goodness, I never can keep track. They seem to contradict themselves an awful lot." Aziraphale licks his lips, radiating a nervous optimism. "You were saying?"

"I've wanted to do that since, well, since the Unpocalypse, definitely. Probably before. Don't tell anyone, but you _did_ do a mean gavotte . . ."

But Aziraphale's bored with talking. He yanks Crowley to his feet for a new kiss with arms looping and bodies straining and Crowley's heart caught in his throat. Crowley uses the last of his brain cells to steer them to the bed.

Things progress wonderfully from there, but Crowley's distracted by the sound effects still emanating from the computer. He cranes his neck around Aziraphale's wing—

"This isn't enough stimulation for you?" Aziraphale says.

"Oh come on. Watching them at the same time is hot."

"Hm. I suppose I'll have to do my best to keep you focused, then."

"By all means. Hey, what are you . . . _where_ did you . . . oh . . . " Crowley's got an inexplicably gold studded blanket in a death grip, now.

"Call it angelic intuition."

"Cssertainly not angelic, that'ss for ssu . . . _ah_ . . . "

*

A sweaty, thoroughly consummated time later, Crowley's startled from his boneless reverie by voices from the computer:

> "That was . . . unexpected," Kirk says lazily.
> 
> "It is merely Vulcan anatomy."

"What?" Crowley asks, sitting up fast. "What's unexpected? Oh come on!"

"Why do you care?" Aziraphale looks awfully careless himself, draped over the tiny bed and various bits of Crowley with his eyes closed.

"It's just. There's so much speculation. Is it green? Is it retractable? And I'm sure I've read about double ridges, whatever _that_ means . . . "

"Crowley."

"Not to mention the whole pon farr thing! How does that even work if, I mean—"

" _Crowley_."

" _What_?"

Aziraphale gestures the computer off, takes Crowley's hand to keep it still and the touch does something funny to Crowley's insides—this simple feeling that . . . "Maybe it's time we stopped messing about."

*

"I do hope we weren't too much trouble," Aziraphale says in the transporter room. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"It's no problem," Kirk assures. He can't figure out how to say, _Thanks again for not being psycho murderers and making me look like an idiot._

Aziraphale nudges Crowley. "Thanks for the lift," Crowley says insincerely.

Kirk glances at Spock. He looks ecstatic to see them go, as far as Spock can look ecstatic.

The aliens step up onto the transporter pad.

"I'll need to stop by the store first, of course, to check on the books . . ."

"Bother your books, we're going to the park."

"Ah, yes. Some fresh air is long overdue."

Molecules swirl and they're gone.

Kirk and Spock head back to the turbolift in silence.

"Bridge," Kirk says, or tries to, because he finds himself pressed to the closed doors with Spock's tongue in his mouth without any discussion of appropriate behavior while on duty or the possibility of discovery or _anything_.

"Bridge," Spock reiterates between kisses, just in case. He bites at Kirk's bottom lip as though he's been trying not to for far too long.

Kirk's happy to oblige. He holds onto Spock's arms while the kiss deepens, suddenly dreading the idea of spending the next several hours not doing this.

The turbolift slows imperceptibly, but Spock notices. He backs off and straightens his shirt. "You need not look so miserable, captain. We have plenty of time."

"Not right now, we don't," Kirk sighs.

Spock places a hand on his arm, keeps it there even after the doors have opened. So focused on Kirk. "We have an eternity," he says, entirely unconcerned as he steps onto the bridge.

Kirk hopes he's usually grinning from ear the ear when he sits down in the captain's chair.

*


End file.
